


Cut

by orphan_account



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Crying, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Prompt: Knife-play. Your call who is doing it to whom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silverstuddedsabertoothdream](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=silverstuddedsabertoothdream).



She doesn't want to do this, but if she turns him away now, she knows he will find someone else to do it. Someone who won't be as careful. Someone who won't care how deeply they cut or how many tears are shed. Someone who won't know where arteries are or what to do if one is opened. It has to be her.

M places the tip of blade and rests against arm. She hesitates. 

“M, _please_ ,” he begs. The anticipation is killing him.

She takes a deep breath and makes the first cut across his bicep. He hisses, but she's not sure if in pleasure or in pain.

“James?”

“More.”

She makes three rapid cuts below the first. His blood is beginning to well up and spill over. There will be no way to hide this from the hotel. They'll have to burn the sheets. He whimpers softly, eyes fixed on the ceiling, chest heaving.

“James?”

“Harder, M.”

She makes three more deep cuts below the others, going deeper than she should have. All of these cuts go deeper than they should have. He begins to cry openly as blood drips from his wounds and sweat beads on his chest and forehead. 

“James,” she says, urgently. “This is enough.”

With his uninjured hand, he grabs her wrist and locks eyes with her.

“Don't you bloody stop.” He lays back against the bed again. “Twist the knife this time. Don't stop even if I beg you to.”

“James, are you even listening to yourself. Please, talk to me. It doesn't have to be like this.”

“Twist. The. Knife,” he grits out between clenched teeth, fighting through the pain.

Becoming angered at him and herself, she stabs into his arm below his shoulder and twists sharply to the right before pulling the blade out. He sobs wretchedly, body shaking in pain and perhaps fear. Fear of himself and his darker desires. She doesn't understand this. She doesn't know why he wants or needs this. It's disturbingly unhealthy. 

“Why, James? Why do you want this? Please, let this be over. You need a proper doctor, and not just for the wounds.”

She's talking about the other cuts across his body that weren't directly involved with a mission and ones that weren't outwardly apparent, the ones you could see only when he thought you weren't looking. His eyes betrayed so much, no matter how silent he remained. Who else has he asked to do this to him? Enough is enough. She grabs a washcloth and presses it over his cuts to stem the flow. He hisses sharply when she presses down.

“M, you swore to me. If not you, then someone else will. There are plenty of sadistic bastards out there who want nothing more than to slice up a pretty face or an active body. They will do it as deeply and as frequently as I ask. They never make me beg for their help, and they never abandon me like this.”

It hits her like a bullet, then, just why she was asked here tonight.

“James, you bloody fool,” she says, voice cracking. 

She cups his teary, snotty face and kisses him softly on his pain-bitten lips.

“James, James, James,” M murmurs gently, moving to kiss his cheeks and throat and palms.

She kisses each finger and his pecs, his eyes, those soulful, blue eyes, and the tip of his nose. She kisses old cuts from the strangers who want to hurt her boy, and she kisses the new cuts she gave him today. She kisses his lips again, staining them both with the proof of what they have done. She wants to kiss away all the hurt she has caused him, even if it takes the rest of her weak excuse of a life.

She calls for an MI6 doctor who stitches him up without question, while she holds his free hand the entire time. M tries not to cry.

After the man leaves with his kit and gives him some pills, she rises to get him a glass of water and pats his forehead with a damp rag. She kisses every tear that leaks from his eyes and sticks to his spiky lashes. 

When he shakes with exhaustion, she pulls the blanket over him and crawls in beside him, holds him close as she whispers his name. She tries to still his trembling.

“No more, James,” she pleads, gripping his hand.

“I love you,” he says instead.

She supposes that's close enough.


End file.
